Home
by Jessahme Wren
Summary: Red takes Liz to his childhood home. Alone and away from the Post Office, the walls between them begin to crumble and they become closer than ever before. Lizzington. Written as part of the Secret Hiatus at the Lizzington Shippers Facebook Group. Now complete.
1. Tea and Sympathy

In fulfillment of a wish for Secret Hiatus, a summer Secret Santa at the Lizzington Shippers Facebook group. For my friend and talented writer LovelyLittleFreckle who never fails to make me laugh; this is for you my dear.

Prompt: Either Red or Liz visit their childhood home.

My apologies in advance for not getting to that part yet. Chapter One is just to get us started; more will come :). *hugs*

Thank you in advance for reading and reviewing; I appreciate every comment :)

Disclaimer: I own nothing related; just taking them out to play.

-0-0-0-

Liz sank down into the plush cushions of her new couch and sighed. The tea she'd made still steeped in its little pot on the coffee table, a ribbon of steam floating from the spout.

She grabbed the remote and flipped through the channels. The FBI took everything after the fiasco with Tom, so the TV was new too. The few things she did keep were personal, not anything you could pick up at Crate and Barrel. A box of Sam's photos. A stuffed rabbit singed and stinking of smoke. Her life in a single box; the rest of it was just window dressing.

But window dressing or not, it was hers-a dwelling but not yet a home. The small apartment was enough for her, though, and on a selfish note, it was nice. Liz drew her legs under her and looked at the well-apportioned space. The modern Victorian style was both relaxed and sophisticated, the cool tones of the decor complimentary rather than harsh. Red had once made a glib comment that she was a winter and not an autumn, and although she had brushed it off at the time, she also found herself making unconscious color choices to support his opinion. Indeed, the deep blue and red touches around her brought out the natural grain of the cherry wood furniture like no burnt orange or hunter green ever could.

She sipped her tea, feeling content in her purchases regardless of the monetary splurge. Her eyes fell on a bookcase in the corner, its design both masculine and refined. It reminded her of Red somehow; she'd never seen him stay in too many places without a bookcase nearby.

A knock at the door pulled her from her revelry. She sighed, putting her tea on the coffee table and pulling her robe around her. Silently, she cursed whoever it was on the other side.

Before she could look through the peephole, Red's rich voice resonated in the empty hallway on the other side of the door.

"Lizzie, it's me."

She frowned, wishing she had more time to look a little more...put together. But she was at home, after all, and it was 10pm on a Friday night and Red rarely made house calls. She ran a hand through her hair, smoothing the wisps that were still damp from the shower. Slowly, she opened the door.

A little puff of cool air followed through the door as it swung open. She stood there, one hand on the doorknob and the other clutched firmly around her waist, securing the robe. She'd forgotten to reinforce the knot, and the lilac silk would've slipped free had it not been for her efforts to prevent it.

Red was standing in the doorway looking at her. He wore a dark suit and a fedora that she had never seen; the brim was crisp and the band had a delicate knot on one side. As collected as he looked, there was something unsettling about his face, about the nervous way he held his hands at his side. His expression was drawn and he looked tired.

"Won't you come in?"

Liz stepped aside for him, but he didn't follow. She frowned, somewhat puzzled, and she took the odd moment to secure the robe more firmly, reinforcing the knot. He watched her hands from the threshold of the door, saying nothing.

She saw him swallow. "Lizzie," he said simply. He looked into her eyes, and she could see a deep sadness there. "I have to go away for awhile."

Her throat constricted at his words. Instantly she thought of the last time he had "gone away," when he was taken by Anslo Garrick. Ever since then she had felt a latent protectiveness of him. Not that he needed it, of course, but it was a needling feeling that occupied her thoughts every time she went more than a couple of days without seeing him.

That he might not come back.

She tightened her arms around her middle and looked at him imploringly. "Come inside, Red."

For a second he didn't move. Then, he dipped his chin and stepped smoothly past her.

Having Red inside her apartment was less awkward than she might have thought. Liz pushed the door closed and leaned against it. She watched Red move further into the room, taking in his surroundings.

"Can I take your coat?" Her eyes fell on the white ceramic pot on the coffee table. "I was having tea if you'd like some."

Red turned, almost as if he was hearing her under water, and quickly removed his hat and placed it on the end of the coffee table. For the first time he looked at her. She still stood with her back against the door, the silk robe falling softly against her curves. She had one leg slightly bent and balanced on the ball of her foot. Her feet were bare.

"I uh...I won't be staying long," he said stiltedly. He found it difficult not to look at her, and even in his quiet discomfort he found it impossible not to find her beautiful.

Liz pushed away from the door and walked slowly toward the middle of the room. She sighed, put off by his demeanor and the late hour.

"Will you sit down?"

She stopped a few feet in front of him, neither of them moving. He swallowed nervously, then nodded as he took a seat in the chair opposite the couch. Liz found her forgotten cup, the tea already cooled, and brought it to her lips.

"How long will you be gone." She was looking at him over the rim of her teacup, that old dread from before slowly creeping back.

"No more than a few days," he said roughly. "Hopefully." He cleared his throat, obviously uncomfortable. "I was going to ask you something."

Liz set the tea down heavily in its saucer and pulled a leg beneath her. He watched her, tracked her movements. His eyes fell on the smooth triangle of skin framed by the silk robe and then moved up to her face. Her eyebrows were raised in question.

"I was going to ask if you would go with me."

The question took her off guard. He never really asked her to do anything, which she stopped minding some time ago. He simply presumed. After all, it was his way, not to mention the arrangement with the FBI. But there was something off in the way he said it, the look in his eyes.

"What's the case?"

He gave her quick smile, but it was noncommittal. "It's not a case."

So it's personal, she thought. Liz wondered briefly what could be personal enough to bring him to her door at such an hour.

"Someone close to me has died," he said to her unspoken question. "In Massachusetts."

Liz sank back into the couch, trying to hide her surprise. A puff of air escaped her lips. "I thought you didn't have any family."

It was one of those stupid, thoughtless things that slip out before you've had a chance to stop it. She would have never said that, yet she had and it was done. She felt like dying.

Red's mouth twitched once, but he said nothing. Liz opened her mouth to apologize, but he saved her the misery.

"She was no relation," he said quietly. He gave a small, rueful smile. "But she was important."

Liz pressed her lips together, the burn of embarrassment still evident on her face. "Of course," she said. She straightened a little. "I'm sorry Red."

He nodded, uncrossing his legs and reaching for his fedora. He locked eyes with her.

"So am I," he said as he flipped the hat smoothly onto his head. He adjusted the brim with one or two quick motions, and Liz imagined how many times she had seem him do that and never noticed it before.

Liz stood, sensing his desire to leave. She followed him to the door. The robe had struggled loose again, and she held it closed with one hand. A fleeting thought crossed her mind of what he must think of her dressed like this, but she pushed it away.

He stopped on the threshold and turned, one hand on the facing. "Well," he said rather dryly. "I guess I'll see you in a few days."

Liz straightened unconsciously and moved a half step toward him. The shadows under his eyes had grown deeper with the late hour, and the harsh lighting from the hallway outside her apartment only seemed to add weight to the sadness that clung to him like a garment.

"Aren't you going to ask me?"

He looked at her with some humor, tilting his head slightly. "Ask you what."

She smiled. "Would I go with you. I believe you said you were going to ask me. I don't think you ever did."

Red pursed his lips. "Didn't I?" He looked at her thoughtfully then gave a little huff of amusement. He met her eyes, and when he spoke his voice had dropped into the lower register. "Aren't you going to ask me why I want you to go?"

Liz studied him for a moment. He would expect her to, wouldn't he, she thought. She was always the one with questions while he walked around like the purveyor of all truth. This time, though, it didn't seem to matter. For once she didn't care.

"No," she said finally. "If you need me to go, then that's enough."

He smiled, a genuine smile that drove the somber notes from his face. He gave her a quick nod, his eyes never leaving hers.

"Ok then."

Liz returned the smile. She had surprised him, that much was evident. She watched as he patted the edge of the doorframe to have something to do with his hands. "Ok," she said softly.

And suddenly, she didn't want him to leave.

But he was turning, already going. She could feel the air between them stir and cool in his vacancy. He was halfway down the hall and she was standing there in a silk robe watching him leave. Liz stood there and listened to the stairwell echo under his weight until the sound had faded and he was gone.

-0-0-0-

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	2. In a Station of the Metro

LovelyLittleFreckle, I'm quickly falling in love with your prompt. This is for you and for the Lizzington Shippers Facebook Group Secret Hiatus. This chapter also fulfills the prompt "Red or Liz get slightly hurt and need the other to care for him/her."

The chapter title is a poem of the same name by Ezra Pound; it's also referenced in the text. Thank you so much for your thoughts on the first chapter; as you know by now reviews are life.

Disclaimer: I own nothing but my feels, but therein lies the wealth.

-0-0-0-

Liz stood on the tarmac, a small suitcase and duffel by her side. Red's private jet waited just twenty or so yards away; the smooth metal exoskeleton glinting in the midday sun. She was surprised that he wasn't already there, but she hadn't seen Dembe or any sign of a car, so she stood beside the idling taxi with some anticipation.

She pulled her long winter coat tighter around her and fastened the middle button. She was working her way up the row of buttons when the hatch on the jet opened and the stairs descended.

Red stood at the top of them, both hands on the railing, and Liz found herself blinking several times just to take in the scene. He looked quite different than how she was used to seeing him. He wore a finely woven gray v-neck sweater over dark jeans. There was a crisp navy blue button-up beneath it, peeking out of the collar. The first three buttons were undone, and she could see a patch of smooth, tan skin even from where she was standing.

He made his way down the stairs as she walked toward him. They met at the bottom step; one of his feet still rested there while the other one dropped down to stand in front of her.

"Hi," he said easily. He seemed more relaxed than the night before. The pinched, somewhat tortured expression that had darkened his features when he had appeared at her door was gone, and it pleased her.

Red reached for the larger suitcase, handling it easily. He looked at her. "I half expected you not to show up," he said. There was humor in his voice, but she also felt he meant it.

"And why would you think that?" She followed him up the stairs, speaking louder against the engines that had slowly started to hum. He reached the top and turned to look at her.

"Because I never thought you would say yes," he said.

Liz followed him into the interior of the plane. She'd only flown with him a few times, but each time she was struck by how unassuming his preferred mode of travel was. As wealthy as Red must be, he wasn't ostentatious. He enjoyed luxury but didn't flaunt it. His private plane was very much a reflection of those sentiments-refinement, taste, and utility.

Red settled into the supple leather seats and looked at home. She imagined he spent quite a bit of time flying, and for someone who lived from one posh hotel and quirky hideout to the next, this plane was probably as close to a stable dwelling as he had.

The engines began an increasing whine. Liz buckled her seatbelt and watched the pilot, a middle-aged man in a sharp black uniform, step into the cabin and talk to Red. Red rose to meet him, and they spoke in quiet tones. While she watched them she realized who was missing.

"Red, where's Dembe?"

The pilot had gone and Red settled back into his seat, crossing his legs languidly. He picked up a folded newspaper beside him. There was a pen next to it.

"Dembe's not going with us this time," he said casually. He looked up and gave her a prim smile. "It's just us."

She nodded. _Just us. _Red was completing a crossword puzzle and working his mouth thoughtfully. She swallowed.

_Just us._

"Lizzie," he began casually. "What's a nine letter word for 'paradise.'" He tapped the pen against the newspaper resting in his lap.

She narrowed her eyes. "'Shangri-la,' she answered flatly. She began rubbing the scar at her wrist. "Red, why isn't Dembe going?"

He penciled in the word, pausing mid-stroke to laugh softly to himself. "Is that with the hyphen?"

"Yes."

He could feel her hard stare, could see the smooth brow in his periphery, the deceptively calm mask that could harbor so much fire and ice. He put the pen down.

"Dembe is on another assignment," he said simply. He looked at her appraisingly, tilting his head. "Are you comfortable with that?"

She straightened, smoothing the non-existent wrinkles in her slacks. She felt somewhat overdressed given Red's more relaxed appearance. It was an interesting role reversal.

"Of course," she said simply. "I was just curious."

It wasn't the whole truth. The thought of being alone with Red, entirely alone and not on a case, was somehow unsettling. As she closed her eyes, she wondered briefly if her gut instinct to go with him had been the right one after all.

-0-0-0-

She was warm and content to sleep. A vague sense of peace surrounded her, a feeling both alien and familiar. The blissful unawareness made her long for the comfort of sleep to last, even though she knew it couldn't. Liz was slipping into wakefulness, and the longer she fought it the more lucid she became. Finally, a slip of cool air and a faint stirring at her throat startled her awake.

She cracked one eye before opening them both wide. "Red, what are you doing?"

He was leaning over her, his hands at the hem of the blanket tucked under her neck. The rough skin of his knuckles grazed her throat once more as he uncurled them, finally withdrawing his hands.

"You looked cold," he said simply. "But you might want to wake up; we're almost there."

Red returned to his seat, allowing her to wake on her own. He had one arm along the back of the couch-style leather seat and he was looking at her, his expression unreadable. She pretended not to notice, instead indulging in a few more moments beneath the blanket. It was soft and luxurious, not the thin, sad versions found on commercial air lines. No, this one belonged here, on his plane among his things. It even smelled like him.

Liz thought briefly of Red napping on long transatlantic flights, dozing under this very blanket.

She was suddenly very warm.

-0-0-0-

The rest of the flight was spent in companionable silence. Red wasn't exaggerating about the proximity of their destination. They had landed and were in a car in under thirty minutes.

Liz leaned her head against the cool window, watching her breath frost against the glass. Even in the cozy interior of the car, she could feel the cold outside. She'd never been to New England, but she'd heard of its brutal winters. It was just early fall, yet the promise of colder weather loomed on the horizon.

The large sedan pulled off the main road and rattled along a narrow dirt path. A myriad of colors mixed and flashed as the sun peeked through the thick woods; like blooms on the branch of a tree the colors disappeared and reappeared in seasons of sun and shade. It reminded her of a poem she'd read in college, one of those short, imagist poems that are like snapshots in time.

_The apparition of these faces in the crowd; _

_Petals on a wet, black bough._

The car, the landscape beyond the window, it all bled together until it was impossible to determine what was moving and what was standing still.

Liz looked over at Red who appeared lost in thought. He had been pensive on the plane, especially after she awoke. The quiet gulf that had separated them during the flight remained undisturbed by either of them.

The late afternoon sun squinted through the trees once more before opening into a wide expanse. In the middle of it sat an unassuming two story home. The facade was Old Colonial with a white-wood face that, for all its apparent upkeep, was showing age. A stone path wound through a brittle carpet of dead grass to the grey wood steps and wrought iron banister of the old house. Liz had seen a dozen simple houses like this one, yet it still felt singular.

The pebbled driveway was a cul-de-sac of sorts, bending around an old oak tree with a tire swing that drifted gently on the breeze. The sedan pulled in front of that tree with a full view of the house and stuttered to a stop.

Red didn't move at first. Instead he gazed at the nondescript house and its modest yard with barely-veiled admiration.

"This was my Nana's house," he said quietly. "My father was stationed not far from here, and this was our home until we left. Maybe three years, we lived here." He worked his mouth. "But Nana stayed."

Liz was managed to hide her surprise. She clasped her hands in her lap and wished for the ambient noise of the engine or a winter bird detouring on its way to Florida, but there was nothing but the sound of their breathing. She pressed her lips together.

"How long did you know her," she asked quietly. This was the most Red had ever shared about his personal history, and she was afraid to press too hard.

He looked thoughtful. "Most of my childhood," he said flatly. "Or at least the parts that mattered." He frowned. "Not long enough."

He opened the door then and stepped smoothly out. Liz exited her side, still processing the maddening way Red had of giving her a morsel or two of insight into his private life and then cruelly snatching it away. She looked for him and he already had their bags out of the trunk and on the pebble drive under the tree.

Liz stood beside him as the sedan drove away, leaving them alone.

Red looked at her a little oddly, then smiled. "We should probably get inside," he said pleasantly. "It looks like it might rain."

She looked to the sky and indeed it was cloudy and dull gray, a sort of wet and drear pall that seemed to paint everything in muted tones. She hefted her smaller bag and followed Red inside.

There was a coat rack by the door, and Red quickly divested himself of his coat and hat, even though it was drafty inside. Quietly he motioned for her to turn, and with just a small amount of hesitation, she complied.

She felt his hands fall gently on her shoulders, their weight the faintest of touches through her winter coat. It was the red wool coat that she had bought for the season. She and Red often found themselves in harsh climates, and at the time she thought it was a prudent and fashionable choice. Red had once remarked on how much he loved the color, how it complimented her hair and complexion. She had thought nothing of it at the time (Red's courtly manners was something she had grown accustomed to), but the thought of the statement now colored her cheeks.

She shrugged out of the coat easily, letting it fall into his waiting hands. Red peeled it slowly from her shoulders, the rush of cold in its wake causing her to shiver. With the coat draped over one arm, he placed a hand near the base of her neck, feeling the gooseflesh there. His mouth was at her ear. "I'll start a fire," he said.

She shivered again, though probably not entirely from the cold. He had never touched her that way, though it wasn't sexual and shouldn't make her uncomfortable. _Should it? _They were alone and this wasn't business, but to her hyper-alert mind, everything seemed to take on a double meaning.

Liz stepped further into the interior of the house. It was rustic with a warm, homey feel. The wide foyer had an emerald green runner that had seen better days, but it was clean, and she found herself admiring the gold stitching at the edge. She moved slowly into the small den where she found Red bent over a stack of kindling on the hearth.

"I, uh...I would like to freshen up," she said.

He stood from his ministrations and turned to face her. Her cheeks were still ruddy from the fall wind, and she looked smaller without her coat. She smiled tightly, but her sapphire eyes sparkled.

He dusted his hands, ridding them of some invisible offense. His sleeves were rolled. "Of course," he said. "Let me show you upstairs."

She let him lead, watching as he held the oak banister only at certain spots. The stain under his palm had achieved a rich patina from years of use, and she wondered how much of that had been his doing.

When they reached the landing of the second floor she noticed it was a bit warmer than the first, but not by much. Red set the bags down outside of a nondescript wooden door and finally turned to look at her.

"I think you'll be comfortable here," he said. "And if you need anything during the night I'm right across the hall." He stiffened a hand at his side, working his way up to what he would say next. "Thank you," he finally said, "for being here." His throat bobbed once and he nodded. "I know it's not the most normal of circumstances-"

"Being with you never is," she interrupted, and they both chuckled lightly at the truth of the statement.

"No, I suppose you're right." He smiled at the floor. "I better work on that fire," he said.

She gave him a soft smile, a little warmed by his nervous display. "You better. I can't feel my toes."

She watched him turn and bound down the stairs, perhaps afraid that if he stayed longer he might say more. _Or do more_, she inwardly finished. But that might be her fear, not his. She slipped inside the cozy bedroom and pressed the door closed behind her. When he was out of earshot, she took a long, cleansing breath.

-0-0-0-

Red was in the kitchen when she came down the stairs. She was toweling off her hair, and she wore an oversized sweatshirt over black leggings. When he looked at her feet, he realized why he hadn't heard her coming. She had on a pair of fuzzy socks.

They were pink and stopped at the ankle. It made him smile. He turned from the stove and looked at her with some humor. "I see you found a cure for your frozen feet."

She settled heavily into one of the kitchen's ladder-back chairs, tossing the towel over a nearby rung. "Not really. It's still a bit cold up there." She eyed him curiously. "What are you doing in here, anyway?"

He smirked as he turned toward the table. "Well, since I am in a kitchen and I'm not eating or drinking, perhaps I am preparing something?"

Her deep frown at his sarcasm caused him to laugh. "You really are an asshole sometimes, Red." She watched him nod, still smiling. "And don't tell me you cook."

He moved the teapot that was resting on the counter behind him to the scarred surface of the kitchen table. "Don't get excited, Lizzie, it's only tea." He slowly poured each of them a mug full. "But I interrupted this last night; I thought I would make it up to you."

Liz's mouth quirked into a smile and her eyes twinkled. "How did you know I have tea after a bath?"

He added two cubes of sugar and looked at her. "I only guessed at that part," he said quietly. Liz was looking at him with such rapt attention that he found himself drawn to her. The dewy skin, the brilliant blue eyes-before he could stop himself, his hand went out to touch the lock of hair that fell around her face. "You're...hair was damp last night as well," he said thoughtfully as he studied her face. He saw her eyes widen and regrettably lowered his hand. "I just assumed."

Red cleared his throat, somewhat chagrined at his open display. He was usually such a master of control; but his recent loss and having Lizzie with him in such a familiar setting, alone; all of it had left him feeling raw and exposed.

"Red, what happened to you?"

He looked down at his hand. It was tied with a white cloth he'd found under the sink. He flexed his fingers.

"Oh this," he said easily. "It's nothing. I caught a splinter while starting the fire."

It didn't satisfy her. She took his hand without permission and opened the palm under the light. He winced.

"I have a kit in my suitcase," she said seriously. Before he could stop her, she was on her way to retrieve it. When she had returned, Liz carried a compact field kit and began spreading the contents on the kitchen table.

He looked at it skeptically. "What did you think we would be up to Lizzie; you've got enough here for a trauma center."

Liz smiled. "Well I just never know with you, Red. I like to be prepared." She grabbed his hand, unwrapping the white cloth gingerly. "And it looks like my hunch was correct."

She leaned over his arm and their heads nearly touched. He could feel her warm breath against his skin, smell the faint floral scent of her hair; her forehead was creased in concentration and she was oblivious to his study. He leaned further into her under the guise of inspecting the wound, just to catch her warmth.

"Red, you're in my light, I can't-"

She lifted her head and their faces nearly touched. Their breaths mingled, and for a moment her eyes slipped down to his mouth. She licked her lips. "I can't see," she finished breathlessly. Her mouth was dry.

"Sorry," he said roughly, the spell broken. Her proximity made him feel somewhat upended yet strangely complete. Despite his desire not to, he pushed back away from the light and wrinkled his nose. "I hardly think this warrants the kind of -" he yelped mid-sentence as she began probing the ugly wound. A piece of the splinter was still lodged beneath the skin, and she would have to extract it.

Liz stifled a chuckle. "Take this," she said humorously, tossing him the white cloth. "You can use it as a blindfold or to chew on, your preference." She shot him a wry grin, turned a kitchen chair around to sit astride it, and set to work.

After she had finished, Red held the mug in his properly bandaged hand and gestured toward the darkened space behind her. "It's warmer in the den," he said.

They both settled on the Davenport, and Red watched Liz curl her legs beneath her like she had the night before, only that lovely robe was cruelly missing (admittedly he had held out hope that it might make a reappearance, but he understood why it hadn't). She was beautiful anyway, and tonight he was beside her on the couch and not halfway across the room.

"Tell me about Nana," Liz said quietly. She had wrapped her hands around the mug and settled back into the couch a bit.

He pursed his lips thoughtfully. "My mother hired her to help around the house. She was no more than 20 at the time, and I was about 8 years old. She moved in with us soon after that; everyone got along so well with her, but me most of all." He paused, looking into the fire. The light from the flames flickered across his face, softening his features. "She was a playmate, a confidant. She was far more than a parent, Lizzie. She was a friend."

Liz had set the mug down on the coffee table and had her arms crossed. She was looking at him with a softness he had seen from her only a few times. "How did she die?"

He sipped his tea. "Heart attack I believe. She went quickly. I'm glad for that." Seconds ticked as a silence stretched between them. He could feel her eyes on him.

"But you wish you could've said goodbye."

Red looked at her then, and her expression was the wistful, knowing expression of someone who's forgiven someone who hurt them. It had taken Liz a long time to understand what he had done for Sam, for her to feel his pain as something similar to her own. He had vowed never to take her forgiveness for granted.

Instead of saying anything more, she let her weight fall against his shoulder and Red put is harm around her, pulling her close. He registered the decompressing sigh, how her body relaxed into his. He had not held her like this since he had shown her the music box, since she had cried against him and they had held each other into the watches of the night.

"Are you warm now," he inquired after several minutes. His voice was lower and had a roughness that she selfishly wanted to hear more of.

She smiled, turning her face into him. "Everything but my feet," she said, her voice muffled against him.

He withdrew his arm from around her and nudged her back against the end of the couch. She was confused at first, then curious. "Let me see them," he said.

"Red, I'm not letting you see my feet," she said flatly.

"It's either that or stick them into the fire." He motioned to her gently. "I have notoriously warm hands," he said in his defense, and he began rubbing them together as if stoking some invisible flame.

How well she knew about those hands, she thought, and smiled inwardly. Their firm warmth at the small of her back, a searing glance on her shoulder. And occasionally, the calloused palms intertwined with her own.

Red was watching her, patient and resolute. He would wait her out, she knew, and neither of them would leave until he had had his way. With a sigh, she gingerly placed her feet into his lap.

He noted her look of trepidation and smiled. "Don't worry Lizzie; I'm not going to repay you for the sheer agony you inflicted upon me earlier."

She toed him lightly just above the knee, her eyebrows up. "Sheer agony Red? You're such a whiner."

He squeezed her foot gently. "And your touch could use a bit more delicacy," he said with a smile. "Now lie back."

Finally, she did so. Red removed the fluffy socks and ensconced each of her feet with his hands.

Indeed they were warm, and Liz couldn't suppress a sigh as she felt the cold recede. Red moved from one quadrant to the other, intermittently warming his hands as they cooled against her. He simply covered them until they were warmed to his satisfaction before moving elsewhere. Her eyes were closed, and he allowed himself the close study he was usually denied.

Her hair spread against the couch picked up the light from the fireplace, igniting the jewel tones in a gilded corona. Her jaw was relaxed, and the half-closed mouth revealed the full beauty of her lips in a way he had never noticed before. They glistened in the same light, and when he changed positions with his hands they gently curved into a contented smile.

She was a goddess and entirely too good for him.

As if she sensed him watching her, Liz opened her eyes. For a moment they simply looked at each other until Red finally spoke.

"You should probably get to bed," he said quietly. "It's been a long day."

It gave her pause, then she simply nodded, wondering vaguely why their evening had to end so abruptly. She sat up on her end of the couch suppressing a yawn. "What time are the services tomorrow."

"Early. But you don't have to go, Lizzie."

She shook her head sharply, ignoring his pleasantries. "What time exactly," she asked firmly.

He sighed. "10am."

"Ok," she said. She stood and shrugged deeper into the oversized sweatshirt, unsure of what to do next. "I guess I'll see you in the morning then."

She was halfway to the stairs in her bare feet when she turned to him, smiling over her shoulder. "Thank you Red," she said simply. He said nothing, but he watched her pad up the stairs until she was out of sight.

Red sat on the couch for a long time after that.

-0-0-0-

Liz slipped into the sanctuary of her bedroom, for the first time thankful for the cooler air; hopefully it would calm the blush in her cheek, the racing heart that had nothing to do with the stairs.

She grabbed a few things and walked into the small bathroom. The steam from her earlier bath was gone, but she wiped the mirror anyway, seeking a clearer image of the woman in front of her.

Things were moving. Things were changing. She felt buoyed along by an unseen force, an energy that, without the restraining power of her usual circumstances promised much to a seasoned heart that had known so little of love.

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	3. Similarly Scarred

A/N: For LovelyLittleFreckle. Cait, Thank you so much for this beautiful prompt; here is that last chapter I owe you. Admittedly, I will miss these two. Fitting that I post it now at the end of our hiatus. *throws confetti*

So many thanks and so much appreciation for the reviews and support you've shown me on this story. Thank you to selinabln for your constant support and encouragement. "There's just no fun in it if you're not there."

Finally, for my dear aunt battling brain cancer. You are my "Nana," my greatest champion and my staunchest defender. I am so blessed to have been able to be there for you over these last months as you have always been there for me. You will never read this story nor will you ever see this dedication, but you are in every word. I love you with everything I have.

In the interest of spoiler free author's notes, this chapter also fulfills a Lizzington Shippers fan fiction prompt (you'll have to read on to find out which one ;)).

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Liz awoke to the smoky, heady aroma of fried bacon and fresh-brewed coffee and knew immediately that she wasn't in her own bed. There were no such smells in her new apartment; she rarely made coffee, preferring instead to grab Starbucks on the way to work. It was just her after all, and coffee for one hardly seemed worth the effort.

She swung her legs over the side of the bed, squinting at the small alarm clock on the bedside table. It was well after 7am, but the room wasn't that bright. She planted her feet on the cool wood floor and stretched cat-like in the gloom.

Liz made her way to the window, drawing back the gauze curtains with the back of her hand. The bedroom faced the rear of the house and overlooked a few acres of rolling hills dotted with the gnarled fingers and mangled limbs of a neglected orchard. Apple trees, she thought. She could make out a few of them that, against all odds, stood bent under the weight of a modest harvest. It was early fall, she thought to herself. It would be time.

She pulled the curtains open on both sides, pressing them out on the rod so they would stay. Through the thin pane and over the dappled tops of the apple trees, the sky was dark. Doleful clouds pregnant with rain dragged low over the horizon. The wind inside them roiled like a tempest; the rain that Red had predicted yesterday would surely come today.

It was nice here with Red, away from the Post Office and from the structure of their usual lives. The imbalance had been frightening at first, a threat to the walls between them that she so carefully protected, but Liz found herself more at ease now. Had it not been for the day's solemn activities, she might even be relaxed.

She let the curtains fall to again and turned away from the window. The dress she would wear to the funeral hung on a hook on the bathroom door. The black fitted dress with strong shoulders that struck her just below the knee, her costume of grief. She sighed heavily.

Liz hated funerals.

Not just since Sam died, but before that. Even since she was a little girl. It seemed to her that her life had been punctuated by loss, a life dotted with intermittent happiness and illustrated by her stubborn refusal to give up. By her perseverance. Funerals only reminded her of that.

She thought of Red. "_The two of us have overcome so much." _He was right.

She slipped on her clothes from the night before and made her way downstairs.

Liz found him with a bar towel thrown over one shoulder and stirring something in a skillet. She crossed to the coffee pot without speaking, and when he saw the movement in his periphery, he turned to her, smiling.

He held a wooden spoon and wore pieces of a suit, fine black trousers with an almost indiscernible grey pinstripe and a sharply creased white dress shirt. The sleeves were rolled up over his tan forearms, and he had an apron tied around his waist. "Good morning," he said warmly. His eyes sparkled in the early morning light. "I thought you might like some breakfast."

She nodded quietly, filling the mug too full and having to sip some off the top before moving it. She smiled at him appreciatively.

Liz never ate breakfast.

But Red wouldn't know that, and as she watched him standing there with that towel over his shoulder and with the wooden spoon and wearing that inexplicably spotless dress shirt that he had no business cooking in, she found it impossible to say no to him.

"Thank you," she said simply. She sat down at the kitchen table where she had bandaged his hand the night before and threaded her fingers through the handle of the mug.

After a few moments, Red placed a plate of eggs and a side of bacon in front of her and sat down opposite her at the table. She moved some around the plate before bringing a forkful to her mouth. They tasted faintly of curry and were light and fluffy.

Red watched her eat, a curious expression on his face. Her cheeks colored when she noticed his study, and he averted his eyes. "Did you sleep well," she asked.

He shook his head slightly as if waking himself from a dream. "Yes," he said quietly. "Although it might've been nicer had it rained." He sipped a glass of orange juice, lifting his eyebrows over the rim. "And you?"

Liz swallowed painfully, suddenly hot. She moved the fork around until she had pulverized the eggs and finally let her hands drop to her lap.

"Red, I'm sorry," she said, somewhat defeated and flustered by her own discomfort. She looked at him imploringly, but despite her silent entreaty Red did nothing to finish her thought.

Liz shook her head, giving an amused huff. "I'm not used to anyone being there when I wake up," she said. "Not since Tom."

He looked at her curiously and was quiet for several seconds. He cleared his throat. "Do you miss it," he asked quietly. "Being married?"

Liz looked at him thoughtfully, a little surprised. She didn't answer right away. She thought of the man she had once loved. Looking for their first apartment. Adopting Hudson. Sharing a pizza in front of that little TV that would go out every time someone used the microwave. She closed her eyes.

"No," she said flatly. "I don't miss a thing."

And she didn't, because all of it had been a lie.

Red nodded, looking suddenly distant. "I do," he said quietly. He canted his head in that way of his, thinking. "Some things I do. Like having someone there when you come back from wherever you've been. Coming into a house already lit, with all the sounds and smells of that sort of life waiting for you."

He smiled at her a little self-consciously. "That's what I miss."

Liz looked at him and imagined Raymond, the husband and father. Raymond the man. There was so much about him that she didn't know, and even this little trip (as personal as it was) had done little to draw back the veil on the mystery of Raymond Reddington's life.

Before she had time to respond, Red had stood and was clearing the table. He had his back turned at the sink, and his voice was rough. "I better finish getting ready," he said brusquely. He was washing the plates, looking down into the soapy water and avoiding the window in front of him. Avoiding her.

"I'm going with you Red," Liz said to his back. It wasn't negotiable and she knew he knew it; she had made that clear last night. She saw his shoulders stiffen a little and his hands still.

"I know," he said without turning around. "Thank you."

She left him then, standing very much as she had found him-distant, distracted, and without seeing his face.

-0-0-0-

An hour later Red stood at the threshold of the house waiting for the car to arrive. He looked at his watch; they had just an hour until the graveside services at the small cemetery a short drive from the house. Red pursed his lips, thinking.

He heard her weight on the stairs behind him and he turned, his eyes tracking the sound until he found her. Lizzie.

She wore a demure black dress with a rich brocade appropriate for the cooler weather. Her hair was swept to the side in the same style she had worn the night they infiltrated the Syrian Embassy, the night they had danced and he had nearly forgotten the context of them being there at all. The night he had talked to distract her, to put her at ease as they made their way across the ballroom floor. If he closed his eyes he could still feel her hands trembling against his. She was beautiful that night and she was beautiful now.

Liz landed in front of him, her modest pumps thudding softly on the polished wood floor. She favored him with a soft smile. "Wow," she said easily. "You clean up nice."

She was trying to cheer him, he knew, and he quirked his mouth. "Have you ever seen me indecent, Lizzie?"

Her hand went up to press the knot in his blue silk tie. She straightened it needlessly and let her hand drop to the top button of his vest, lingering there. "Oh you're hardly decent Red," she said teasingly. "But you're always presentable."

He smiled, looking into her lovely face and warmed by her touch. "Well, you're right about that," he said quietly. His eyes roved restlessly over her face, vainly attempting to take her in all at once.

Liz let her hand drop to her side, missing the warmth, the steady thump of his heart against her palm.

"We better go, Red."

She was right he knew, but he was somewhat reluctant to leave the security of their shared space. Reluctant to go about the business of saying goodbye, a business he seemed all too familiar with.

He nodded. Red squared his shoulders and they walked out of the house together.

-0-0-0-

A litter of leaves, orange and yellow ochre dotted with specks of red peppered the green Astroturf blanket spread around the little assemblage over the open grave. Red sat stoic and solemn as a cold wind twisted around the tombstones that jutted like broken teeth from the dead-grass landscape of the small family cemetery. Nana would be buried with her people, and the few that had assembled at the grave site Red didn't know.

Liz pulled her coat around her, shrinking deeper into its warmth. She closed her eyes against the liturgy, the rattling leaves and the intermittent sighs and sniffles of the grieving.

Beside her Red sat still as stone, his face placid and fixed beneath a black fedora and dark glasses. She moved beside him and felt him stir and stiffen slightly in response. She stole a glance at him. Beneath the facade, the mask he wore for the world, Red grieved...for the woman he loved, for the family he lost, for things unknown to Liz-secret hurts related or unrelated to the way their lives had intersected.

She grabbed his hand.

Like he had done so long ago for her when she had felt her world was falling apart, when she didn't know who to turn to. When there was no one.

But she had him, even though she had later doubted. Even though she had pushed him away.

Red did not look at her, but she felt him relax. She held his hand until the service was over, and from to time he absently ran his thumb over her knuckles as if reassuring himself that she was still there.

On the way home they said nothing. The silence was not awkward; indeed, it was welcome. The funeral was stilted and uncomfortable and a necessary social grace. But it was over now. Liz pressed her head against the back of the seat and closed her eyes, listening to the soft rain pattering on the roof of the car.

"Death is a dignitary," Red said to no one, breaking the silence that had settled between them. She had been on the verge of nodding off, and she opened her eyes drowsily and looked at him.

"Excuse me?"

"Ambrose Bierce," he said in explanation. "Death is a dignitary who is to be received with formal manifestations of respect...even by those most familiar with him."

He was providing commentary on the day, she thought, in his own way. Liz was fully awake now and considered the quote. Yes, she supposed it was true. Death would not be ignored, and sadly Red would be most familiar. She cleared her throat. "The service was beautiful," she lied. In fact it was bleak and piteous. He only nodded.

They spent the afternoon in their own pursuits. After donning more comfortable attire Liz explored the backyard, the forgotten orchard and the few trees that still stood against the ravages of time and neglect. The crisp fall air had that earthy smell that always lingered after a rain and it seemed to invigorate her; being away from the noise of the city was a welcome escape, and this was the first time she'd had a moment to actually enjoy it. When she returned to the house a few hours later, she found Red in the kitchen sorting papers. He had shed his suit except for the trousers and the crisp white shirt. The top few buttons of his collar were undone.

"Look what I found," she said brightly. She emptied her oversized sweatshirt and a few small, blush-colored apples bounced across the table.

He looked at her curiously and with some surprise as the apples tumbled forth. "Where did you get these?"

She took a bite out of one of them with a satisfying snap. "The trees out back," she said around a mouthful of fruit. He watched her chew with some fascination. She wore a ponytail and leggings and big clunky boots, and he had never seen anyone look so vibrant.

"I thought those were all dead," he said distractedly, returning to his work. Liz pulled out a chair and settled near him at the table.

"You know, with a little care those few trees that are left might make it," she said to him. "It wouldn't take more than-"

"I'm selling the house, Lizzie."

He stopped what he was doing, placed the papers to the side and folded his hands in front of him. She must have been visibly surprised, because when his eyes fell on her face, his softened.

"This is your home," Liz said, somewhat stymied by his abrupt announcement.

Red set his mouth. "I don't have a home, Lizzie. And if I did, it wouldn't be this one. This isn't anyone's home. Not anymore. I kept this house for Nana and she's gone."

She looked at him, a little bewildered. In the short time she had been here, this house had seated itself as part of the Raymond Reddington mythos, of her idea of who he might've been before she knew him. Of Red's history and family. To think of it gone, no longer associated with him, was somehow wrong.

"I understand," she said simply. She frowned. "When will we leave?"

Red pinched the bridge of his nose, wearied from the work of sorting through Nana's affairs. "Tomorrow," he said. "As soon as I have things taken care of."

Liz said nothing. She rubbed her hands up and down her arms absently, her mind elsewhere. Her eyes fell on a small stack of leather bound books amid the litter of documents on the table. They looked like photo albums.

He watched her face bloom into a wicked smile. "Are those what I think they are," she said wryly. Her eyes twinkled as she reached for them, and he playfully stayed her hand.

"I'm really not sure if you're prepared for this Lizzie," Red said with faux severity. "My awkward adolescence was quite unkind."

She cut her eyes at him. _Doubt that_, she thought. Red was devastatingly handsome now; the early version of that couldn't be too far off the mark.

"Wasn't everyone's," Liz muttered in response as she took up the first album. She opened the cover and the face looking back at her was much unchanged.

Red as a boy. _Raymond_, she corrected. Or Ray. She wondered which it was or if she would ever know. A young child of 7 or 8 in suspenders and a little woolen hat. Blond curls jutted from beneath it, framing the same face, the same cunning eyes that stared back at her now, only unmarred by the harsh truths of the world.

"God you were so adorable," she said delightedly. Red laughed in spite of himself.

"_Were_? Lizzie, I'm insulted."

She ignored him completely. Album after album rendered the same. Chronicles of Raymond Reddington as a young child, a teen, then a young man. Red had been an athlete, a track star of all things, and Nana had kept every clipping, every mention of him in the papers, long after his family had moved on.

Two hours and one bottle of wine later they were sitting on the couch, feet propped on the coffee table in front of the fire and thumbing through the last one. Liz had taken her hair down, and she let the longer length spill over the cushion and away from her neck.

Liz felt privileged to have had this sneak peek into his former life. She found that she had wanted this without realizing it, had needed to know just a little more about who he was _before_ for so long. She turned the last page. It was a spread of clippings and photographs from Red's graduation from the Naval Academy (my God had he wore the hell out of that uniform, she thought), and she stood up clumsily to retrieve another one. Liz hadn't been up in a while and the wine they had shared still lingered in her consciousness like a welcome fog. When she returned to the bookcase where Red had retrieved the albums, she found him already standing there.

"There aren't any more," he said simply. He had his hands behind his back and an odd look on his face.

She looked at him disbelievingly. "Nonsense Red," she said teasingly, thinking him to be self-conscious of the next installment and meaning to dissuade her. "I've seen 'little you' bare-assed in a bath tub; there's no going back from that."

He said nothing and his expression did not soften. "There aren't any more," he repeated, and his face changed. "Nana and I...lost touch for awhile," he said.

Her expression fell a bit then, and she sobered considerably as she made the deduction. _Naval Academy_. And then shortly thereafter, the history on Raymond Reddington takes a turn. _They lost touch_, she thought. _He lost touch_.

"Red, I'm sorry," she said simply. She walked toward him with the last book in her hand. He watched her approach him, watched her pad toward him in her bare feet and a blush from the wine. He had told her more than he should've, he thought to himself. More than was safe.

"You shouldn't have come," he said quietly, but it was wavering and he didn't believe it.

"Why not?" She placed the photo album under a nearby lamp. "Because you don't want to face it Red? Because you don't want me to know?"

He closed his eyes, turning away from her before she could see the moisture in them, the unspent tears he refused to shed because it would do nothing...change nothing.

"Everything you think you know about me is a lie," he said, his voice a measured rumble in the stillness of the room. He pressed his fingers into the palm of his hand. "And Nana was the only one left. The only person who knew me before all of it went to hell."

Liz swallowed hard at the honest anguish in his voice, and though his back was still turned she could hear the tears he held in check.

"You think I don't know that," she said as she took another step toward him. "You think I believe whatever anyone tells me, least of all the FBI?"

Her voice went up on the last phrase, bitterness and anger coloring her words. Her eyes stung and she blinked it away. A calm settled over her.

"And Nana wasn't the only one who knew you before, was she?" she said quietly. She was standing behind him now, and she let her hand fall to his shoulder, feather soft against the quivering tension there. "I knew you too," she whispered against the back of his neck. "Did you think I didn't know?"

A tear escaped the corner of his lashes as he closed his eyes against her words. "How," he finally managed, afraid to say more, afraid of losing himself to a secret he had nearly died to keep.

"You're not the only one with contacts," she said. She thought of Aram. Her friend. After months of digging he had uncovered the actual file on Raymond Reddington, the one she was never supposed to see. The one with the description of a horrible fire, of a mission gone wrong. Of a young Naval officer.

Of a little girl pulled from the flames known only as Jane Doe. Whereabouts unknown.

She let her hand drift over the slope of his broad shoulders to float slowly over the muscular plane of his back. "Don't," he said, but she didn't stop.

"Does it hurt," she asked tenderly. She could feel the tears swelling in her eyes as she stared at the back of his impeccable white dress shirt, imagining what lay beneath.

"No," he answered her quietly. "It doesn't hurt. I just-"

"Will you show me?"

He said nothing, but she could feel his breathing still, cease a few seconds only to release as his arms rose, as his hands began to work the buttons on his shirt from the collar down. He exhaled a long, shuddering breath.

She removed her hand, allowing him room to complete the task. When he was down to the cotton undershirt, she resisted the urge to run her hands over the thin material, to read the scarred flesh like a tarot card, like a palm reader would at a Sunday carnival. Instead, she pulled the t-shirt out of his belt and lifted it over his head.

The dim firelight and the shadows it cast did nothing to camouflage what lay exposed before her. A tapestry of pain...obvious pain, where torment had left its fingerprints on a man who risked everything to save a little girl's life.

_This is Raymond Reddington_, she thought. _The reason I'm alive_.

She sucked in a breath, unable to hide her shock at the marred flesh, the stretched skin and shiny scar tissue that told the story of her life.

"Oh Red," She finally managed, but it was at the end of her breath and she choked on the words. A shaky hand went out to touch him to assert that it was real.

"Lizzie."

She did not answer. She moved her hands over the topography of his back, over the ridges of poorly healed flesh. The skin was smooth, unmarred by any visible follicle or pore and she touched it gingerly, afraid that she would hurt him.

"It's ok Lizzie," he murmured over his shoulder. "I have little sensation there."

She closed her eyes. Here he was bearing his greatest secret, at his most vulnerable state and he was comforting _her_. A few tears tracked down her cheeks and she quickly wiped them away.

Liz cooled her fevered face by pressing it against his shoulder.

"Can you feel this Red." Her voice was muddled with sobs that wouldn't break, with an anguish that was yet untapped.

She felt him stiffen a little at the contact, and his breathing changed. He exhaled slowly. "Yes," he said.

She closed her eyes, feeling the web of scars against the skin of her cheek. She withdrew then and pressed her lips to the same spot.

He made a sound somewhere between a sigh and a moan, and his head dropped.

"What about this," she said as she pressed another kiss to the back of his neck, her voice thick and her heart racing with the sensation of his skin against hers, of him pliable in her hands and utterly vulnerable.

"Yes," he hissed. After a few seconds he straightened and turned around, and when she saw his face it was almost more than she could bear.

There was desire, yes, but also something else. Something deeper. Something that bore no regret when it came to her.

She began to cry.

"I'm sorry," she said as the sobs racked her body. "I'm so sorry."

Red stepped toward her, cradling her face in his hands. He shushed her gently as he swept away her tears with the pads of his thumbs.

"Don't be," he told her. "Don't ever be sorry for anything. Saving your life is the most important thing I have ever done."

Liz looked up at him, a ghost of a question still at the forefront of her mind. _Why? Why am I so important? _It was the question that had always been there, but she did not speak it now, she couldn't.

Her eyes must've been enough. Red gave a huff of a laugh and slipped a hand around the back of her neck, just under her hair. His palms were rough and warm. "Do you really not know?

He sighed and rested his forehead against hers. Their breaths mingled for endless seconds, and Liz could hear the rush of blood pounding in her ears. She reached up between them and placed her hand over his heart, assured the rhythm would be the same.

He kissed her. Chastely at first, then fully and passionately. He wrapped his arms around her, surrendering to her silken lips, to the heat of her mouth.

That moment, perfect and complete, was as they were: forged out of time and branded by fate.

Liz returned the kiss, emboldened by the realization of his feelings for her and satisfied that they matched her own. Long had she wanted this, but she was afraid, afraid that two people so similarly scarred could never find peace in each other.

None of that mattered now. She trailed more kisses down the length of his neck, eager to fully possess him now that she knew she could. She paused over the small scar where the tracking device once was. She exhaled, tightening her arms around him.

"You may sell this house Red, but you already have a home," she said into the thrumming pulse of his neck. "We both do now."

-0-0-0-

This chapter also fulfilled the Lizzington Shippers Fan Fiction prompt "Liz sees Red's Scars."

Please take a moment to leave a comment; I would love to know what you think :).


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